Waiting for Inspiration

Despite the sharpened pencils and moleskin notebook she’ll not be enticed.
Nor does my glistening monitor and expectant keypad impress her.
If I want to see her in the day I have to be gardening,
or cooking, or chatting to friends;
pretending indifference, watching from the corner of my eye
as she lurks behind the shrubbery, hides in the pantry, skulks among the cobwebs
in the cracks above the door.

Mostly she likes to come at night
when Paul is breathing gently next to me (finally asleep after a punishing day).
Gliding into the bed between us,
she whispers promises , fills my head with images,
stirs my blood and takes away my breath.

By morning she is gone.
My moleskin notebook is intact.
Its pages still virginal.